


Gardening for Beginners

by triedunture



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Deepthroating, Face-Fucking, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Hair-pulling, Light-Hearted, Multi, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Service Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: A brief interlude during Crowley and Aziraphale's stint as domestic servants-slash-godfathers.





	Gardening for Beginners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obstinatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/gifts).



The plan, when viewed by an outside party, made very little sense. 

For a start, the idea that a demon and an angel should play godfather to the Antichrist was, at best, a malapropism deserving of a giggle. The fact that Crowley and Aziraphale had the wrong boy pegged as the Son of Satan entirely is worthy of a guffaw. And one could be totally excused an outright series of chuckles when reflecting on the most ludicrous bit: their cover stories were thin as onionskin and chosen without much thought to actual skill. 

Aziraphale began to understand this last point only after losing his fifth rosebush to black spots. He'd never been much of a gardener, and so it was rather unfortunate that he had been hired in that capacity to oversee the ample grounds surrounding the Dowling estate.[1] He sighed and, looking about to make sure there was no one around to see, enacted a tiny miracle which replaced the ailing plant with some lush peonies, which he liked better anyway. 

"That's cheating, you know," came a lilting brogue from behind a hedge.

The only thing that kept Aziraphale from jumping out of his skin was that he knew how much paperwork would be involved, and so he contained himself. "Crowley!" He turned and patted his chest as if to calm his racing heart. "I didn't see you there."

"Obviously." The blade-thin shadow that was Crowley stepped into the hedgerow. Tiny dark glasses were lowered just enough for a yellow-eyed glare to peek overtop. "D'your superiors know how frivolous you're being with your celestial powers, angel?"

"They understand my current position may necessitate some finagling," Aziraphale hedged (about as well as he'd trimmed said hedges, in fact). "And anyway, why are you still using that Scottish accent? It's just the two of us here, after all."

Crowley's head tilted at an angle that would've put the tiny black hat perched on his[2] head in peril were it not for the judicious application of a hatpin. "I happen to like this voice at the moment," he said, making the vowels into a sort of rollercoaster ride that Aziraphale found hard to hang onto. "What's your excuse for keeping the teeth in, then?" He raised his perfectly plucked brows in the direction of Aziraphale's ruddy face. 

"Ah." Aziraphale removed the false teeth with the most delicate motion possible and, wrapping them in a handkerchief, placed them in his pocket. "Good point." Now unencumbered, Aziraphale's jaw stretched and cracked. He nodded to the cottage in the distance, a charming if ramshackle little structure befitting his position as head gardener. "Could I offer you some tea? I'm off duty by now, I think." 

Crowley tapped the point of his parrothead-handled umbrella, which he had taken to carrying no matter the weather, into the grass. He squinted at the sun as if considering the time. Aziraphale, who happened to know that young master Warlock was away on a school trip and therefore would not need the tender attentions of his Nanny this evening, waited patiently for the answer.

"I suppose," Crowley finally lilted, and, taking Aziraphale's offered arm, strode with him through the hedgerows toward the cottage. 

Since he would be spending the next five-ish years on the Dowling estate, Aziraphale had made it his business to turn the cottage into a comfortable home. While it lacked the towers of books or centuries' worth of leather-and-ink smells of his bookshop, Aziraphale's lair was serviceable enough: a cozy armchair, a dainty fireplace, a lovely kitchen in which to keep the kettle, a snug suite upstairs, and a ginger cat named Stephen.[3]

Crowley, who had not seen the inside of the cottage before, took it all in with a sweeping gaze of light disapproval while drawing the long pin from his hat. "I've only got a single room in the main house," he said, setting hat and pin on the sideboard along with the umbrella. "Seems a bit lopsided, don't you think? I'm the one raising their only child. Here you are, magicking peonies and living it up with a loo of your very own."

"We don't actually need a loo," Aziraphale reminded him.[4]

"That's not the point," Crowley said sharply. "It's sexist, is what it is." 

"I imagine the cottage is traditionally given to the gardener with the idea that he will come with a wife and family," Aziraphale said, drifting toward the crooked staircase, "while the nanny is a lone agent." 

"Like I said." Crowley took a seat on the divan and crossed his legs at the ankles, kitten heels clacking. "Sexist." He checked the seams of the backs of his stockings, but they were still perfectly straight.

"I quite agree." This was called over Aziraphale's shoulder as he reached the top of the stairs. He passed into the suite where he could shed his disguise and don his usual, more comfortable attire.[5] As he changed, he continued, "If you'd like to trade, I would of course agree to it, my dear."

"Oh no," Crowley called back. "You're not sticking me with that damned cat. Plus I've finally arranged my succulents just so in the bay window. South facing. Too late to change it now."

Aziraphale descended the stairs looking once more like himself, finger combing his white curls into place where they'd been squashed by his gardening hat. "Well, if you change your mind…."

Crowley caught sight of him and heaved a sigh of relief. "Praise Satan. If I had to look at that getup a moment longer, I was going to set myself on fire. Why you decided to dress like some deranged gnome from a Grimm's book is beyond me."

"It's practical," Aziraphale said with a snip in his voice. "Children are more likely to remember people that look memorable. Tea?" He moved into the kitchen without waiting for the answer. 

Lacquered nails tapped a beat against the armrest. "Memorable? Certainly. Also terrifying."

"Oh, and you're not?" Aziraphale's head popped round the doorframe. "So severe, Crowley. I've seen that exact outfit in latex walking down the street on many an evening back in Soho, you know." 

Crowley seemed to consider this for a moment, then scrunched his face into a frown. "I wouldn't want to squeak when I walk, I think. Otherwise, excellent taste, sounds like." 

Aziraphale ducked back into the kitchen to ready the mugs. "If you'd like to slip into your normal clothes," he said through the wall, "I wouldn't mind. It's just us here tonight." 

"Yes, I know." Still in the Scottish accent. "Think I'll keep it for now, if it's all the same to you."

Aziraphale ignored the kettle's whistle for a moment to stick his head back into the sitting room, giving Crowley a soft smile. "Of course it's all the same to me, dear." Then he went to go see about the boiling water and leaves. Crowley, unseen, allowed the corner of his mouth to lift just a fraction.

As they sipped their tea, Aziraphale and Crowley chatted about the boy they were supposed to be leading toward the center of the road. 

"We had a lovely little moment the other day," Aziraphale said. "He brought me a bird with a broken wing and I showed him how to set it." 

"Did it heal?" Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale glared at Stephen, who was licking himself in a square of sunlight on the floor. "Well, the less said about it the better," he said, looking away. "The important thing is, Warlock tried to save it, the sweet lad." 

"Sweet?" Crowley grinned over the rim of his teacup, darkly manicured fingernails clicking there lightly. "D'you know, I found him playing on the stone walkway last weekend. He had a little bit of wood in his hand that he'd sharpened down to a point." One long, elegant finger stabbed downwards like a piston in demonstration. "He was cutting off the heads of ants and seeing how long their bodies tottered around before dying."

"Oh." Aziraphale grimaced, then brightened considerably. "We're doing a wonderful job, aren't we?"[6]

Crowley winked one slitted eye. "He'll be the most normal boy in all the world when we're done with him," he said. 

They sipped at their cups in comfortable silence, each congratulating himself privately on his achievements. 

"I do wonder, Crowley," Aziraphale said after awhile, "why you insisted on taking the role of nanny. I expected you'd be more comfortable playing gardener, what with your penchant for plants." 

"I like my plants indoors," Crowley pointed out, "none of this countryside nonsense. How're you supposed to control a thing when it's not even properly contained?"

Aziraphale couldn't argue with that and didn't want to. "Still, much of this nannying business seems more suited to me. I can't imagine you enjoy reading the young master his bedtime stories every night. You barely read the liner notes of your albums." 

"I _read._ [7] And anyway, nannying's more than that. You wouldn't like it. The boy asks," Crowley's smile grew, "too many questions."

Aziraphale was now the one hiding his grin behind his cup. He declined to say just how fond he was of those sorts of people and instead said, "I think it's rather sweet, Crowley, the way you dote on him."

"I do not dote," Crowley returned automatically. "I work. He is an important mission. Our cozy lives, not to mention the fate of the universe, are at stake. It's not a pleasure cruise."

"No, of course not. My apologies," said Aziraphale, who was not at all sorry.[8]

Crowley drained his teacup and placed it back with its saucer on the table with the smallest clink. "Anyway, it's been a millennia or two since I've had the chance to stretch my legs like this, so to speak." He touched a careful hand to the back of his exquisitely arranged hair. Not a wave out of place. "Lipstick's come a long way, you know. Not going to pass up a chance at that, am I?"

"And why should you?" Aziraphale finished his tea and gave Crowley's skirt-covered knee a gentle pat as he rose from his chair. "Shall I make another pot? Or something stronger?" he asked as he toddled toward the kitchen. 

"Y'know what?" Crowley drawled in such a way that it caused Aziraphale to stop in his tracks and turn to stare at him: a sleek, sharp, black shape sitting at all acute angles on the divan. "I think," the brogue rolled, "you should take a seat, dearie, and I'll take care of all that for you."

"Oh!" Aziraphale pinked at his cheeks and throat. "Well, that's very decent of you."

"No it isn't." Crowley stood as one fluid line. "I'm anything but decent; you know that. Whisky and soda all right?" With the click of his kitten heels, he flowed into the kitchen, leaving Aziraphale to grope for a chair. 

The truth was, Crowley got this way sometimes: a bit bossy, but in a strangely helpful way. Solicitous enough, yet with a faint edge of a threat lingering in the air. Accept this graciousness Or Else, it seemed to say. Aziraphale had no problem accepting. It was nice to be doted upon, once in awhile (though Crowley would no doubt balk again at the idea that he could dote). 

Crowley banged around in the kitchen for a bit before returning with a stout cut glass filled with cubed ice suspended in the perfect shade of amber. He handed this to Aziraphale, who took it with numb fingers. 

"Aren't you having one?" asked Aziraphale. He detested drinking alone. 

"Perhaps later." Crowley's voice had dropped to a low purr. Stephen, offended, scowled in his direction but was roundly ignored. 

Crowley reclaimed a seat on the divan and watched as Aziraphale sipped at his drink. Thinking he was expected to make some pronouncement, Aziraphale nodded and said it was very good. 

"Refreshing. Perfect for a hot day," he added, as it is good to be specific in one's comments.[9]

"Mm. That reminds me." Crowley smoothed his skirt down his thighs as if gathering himself, then gave a little twirl of his fingers through the air. The faint rumble of thunder boomed like a far-off drum. 

Aziraphale glanced out the window and saw that a sudden summer storm had bloomed on the horizon. "Oh, you shouldn't have gone through the trouble for me."

"It's not for you," Crowley said. "It's for your poor peonies. I don't care if they've been conjured from Heaven itself; they've just been planted and need to be watered. Honestly."

"Ah." Aziraphale colored and ducked his head to take in more of his drink. "Silly of me not to think of it. I'm not half the gardener you are, I'm afraid."

"Well," Crowley drawled, rolling his thin shoulders, "you have other fine qualities." He neglected to mention them, instead patting the cushion on the divan next to his leg. "Why don't you sit with me? I can barely see you over there in this gloom."

It was true that the thunderstorm was right atop them now, the black clouds blocking out every bit of sunlight that had been previously streaming through the windows. A temporary night fell. Rain began to pound violently against the windowpanes. Stephen, sensing the implications, rose from his spot on the rug and fucked off upstairs. 

Having no excuse not to, Aziraphale left his chair and joined Crowley on the divan, whisky and soda clasped in one hand. They watched the rain slick down the windows and the lightning flash blinding in the distance. 

"It's lovely, isn't it?" Aziraphale said. "Being nice and dry inside while it's storming out?" 

Crowley leaned closer and put his wine-red lips right up against Aziraphale's pink ear. "Is there anything I could do to make it lovelier for you?" he whispered.

This was not the first time Crowley had made such an offer to Aziraphale, yet it stole the angel's breath every time to hear it. He wanted to tell Crowley that he couldn't possibly be any lovelier, but he knew such soppiness would make Crowley sneer. Instead he turned his head just a fraction and caught Crowley's slick red mouth against his own lips. 

"You could take off your spectacles," he breathed when they finally parted. 

Crowley, smug and obliging, removed his tiny dark glasses and placed them carefully on the table. His yellow eyes stared unblinking at Aziraphale, the slits of his serpentine pupils grown fat with wanting. His tongue, famously interesting, swiped slow along his bottom lip.

"I'd like to try something," he said. 

Aziraphale barely heard the words, too mesmerized by the motion, but nodded encouragingly all the same. "Whatever you'd like, darling." 

Sharp painted fingernails pressed lightly into Aziraphale's chest. He allowed Crowley to press him back into the divan's soft embrace. 

"Stay there," Crowley said. "Enjoy your drink." His smile broke at least three commandments. "Let me work."

Aziraphale took another sip of his whisky and soda and nearly choked on it as he watched Crowley slither gracefully from the divan to the floor, where he knelt at Aziraphale's feet. Yellow eyes blown almost entirely black gazed up at him; those lockpick fingers plucked at his trouser's flies. 

"All right?" Crowley asked. 

"Extremely," Aziraphale said, huskier than he'd planned.

As the angel's sartorial evolution had stopped somewhere around 1908, the flies were the button variety—zips being much too modern for Aziraphale's tastes. Crowley hummed as he worked each button from its slit, not complaining precisely, but silently sending glances up at Aziraphale that meant _You see? If you'd capitulated to zippers we'd be home by now._

Aziraphale groaned. He saw his point. His blond head fell back to rest against the velvet curve of the divan. Crowley tutted at this display.

"Your drink, dearie," he reminded gently. "Let the ice melt too much and it'll get watery."

"Yes, of course," Aziraphale said, and downed the entire thing in a long gulp. He put the empty glass aside[10] and gave a relieved, refreshed sigh. 

Crowley seemed pleased by this and bent to press his soft cheek to the growing bulge in Aziraphale's loosened trousers. The drag of his puffed breath through the fabric was more than Aziraphale could bear. He made a sound—just this side of embarrassing—and reached a hand toward Crowley's coppery head. 

"Ah-ah." Crowley caught Aziraphale by the wrist. "Have you any idea how long it took me to get this hair pinned into place? Am I really going to allow you to mess it all up?"

"Sorry, so sorry," Aziraphale said, mortified at his bad manners, and proceeded to tuck both his hands beneath his shaking thighs. 

Crowley's eyes crinkled at the corners. "There's a good boy," he said, and at last drew Aziraphale's cock[11] from his trousers.

If Aziraphale had been wondering why Crowley had chosen this particular day to indulge in this sort of thing, the answer became crystal clear within moments. They were both great lovers of their preferred aesthetics and Crowley's had always tended toward aggressive contrasts. The picture he now made—red head lowering down over Aziraphale's lap, blood-dark lipstick smearing over the length of Aziraphale's pale shaft—was Crowley all over. His eyes shone up at Aziraphale, looking for his reaction, his approval.

And that was also Crowley all over, wasn't it? Desperate for control, but only as a means to desperately please. To be the focus of Crowley's attentions, the one to receive this gift—Aziraphale felt frightfully lucky and infinitely grateful. 

The fact that Crowley could do some very clever things with his tongue didn't hurt.

He was being very clever now, in fact, working his way down, down, down in a smear of wine-red lipstick until his nose nestled between Aziraphale's open flies. Then up, licking, tasting as one tastes ice lollies, here flat and broad, there a twisted point of the tongue. Demons on the whole run quite cool, and so Crowley's breath gave the sensation of peppermint against Aziraphale's hot skin, making it prickle into gooseflesh all over. 

"Oh," Aziraphale gasped, then tried to come up with something more appreciative. "Oh, Crowley, you're so—" 

Impossible to finish any thought when Crowley swallowed his cock deep into his throat and held it there for a long moment.

"So—!" He clapped a hand over his lips to keep more dreadful noises from escaping.

Aziraphale's helplessness seemed to please Crowley more than any appellation could. He smiled around his mouthful, lipstick messy streaks now around his lips. Ruthlessly, he hummed. 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale's hands flew once more toward Crowley's bent head, but stopped an inch away as if remembering themselves. They trembled there, begging permission.

Crowley pulled off his throatful of cock with an indecent slurp, saying in a wrecked whisper, "Go on, then. I'll fix it later."

With a thankful moan, Aziraphale plunged his fingers into the beautiful waves of Crowley's hair, mussing it terribly. Crowley took a moment to bask in the sensation. His eyelids lowered near shut, like a mystic caught in a holy trance. He turned his head in Aziraphale's grasp, wet lips brushing a wrist, a wordless plea for more. 

Aziraphale tightened his grip. Crowley's mouth opened on a silent gasp. A good sign. 

Outside the rain still fell in heavy torrents. Neither of them noticed. They could only stare in wonder at each other, at the mess they'd made of themselves, and delight in it. 

"Allow me, my dear," Aziraphale murmured, and pulled Crowley down by the hair to feed him his cock. He guided it carefully past Crowley's panting lips, gentle but sure in his movements. Crowley took Aziraphale into his throat again, hands braced on Aziraphale's knees, the wings of his shoulderblades rising sharply as he bent low. The cool tingle of his saliva dripped down Aziraphale's shaft to pool into a sticky mess in the blond curls at the base. Crowley did nothing, did not even breathe, and let Aziraphale control his every move. 

Both hands again in that red hair, tugging Crowley's head down, pulling it back up. Aziraphale fucked Crowley's throat with a kindness that should not have been possible, yet here it was. Scholar's soft hands gripping at hair, sweeping great curls of it out of Crowley's face as the pins fell away. Making sure it wasn't in Crowley's eyes, wouldn't catch on his lips. Eyes and lips were busy—Aziraphale wanted to be watched by Crowley, and his cock needed to be buried inside his clenching throat. 

"Beautiful," Aziraphale finally managed to say. 

Poets have made a great deal of noise about what an angel might taste like. Ambrosia is a popular guess, seeing as it could mean anything and sounds quite nice. Holiness is a contender; suitably vague. Love, maybe? Marshmallowy and white?

Crowley had always thought that Aziraphale, when he came, tasted faintly of coriander. Some like it, some don't. Crowley happened to love it.

He fought Aziraphale's grip just enough to collect his spend on his tongue, sucking greedily for more, eyes closing in the nearest thing to rapture that Crowley could experience. He nuzzled down into Aziraphale's lap and milked him to the very last drop. 

Aziraphale petted a hand through the disaster that Crowley's hair had become and tried to remember how breathing was accomplished.

"My dear, dearest," he said when Crowley finally raised his head: lipstick almost completely rubbed away, mouth red only from his exertions, eyes golden and wide and twinkling in pleasure. "How amazing you are."

"Well." Crowley produced a black lace-edged handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at the ruin of his makeup. Though demonic intervention, it knew what was good for it and reformed into a perfect vision of lipstick, rouge, and mascara. "'S nice to be appreciated." He raised a hand to the back of his tousled head, but Aziraphale stopped him with a little gasp.

"Leave it for the moment," he said. It made such a nice vision, the red waves falling about Crowley's face to his shoulders. "Oh, and your poor knees. Here, let me help you." He stood, shakily, righting his trousers and helping Crowley to his feet. 

Crowley rose, intrigued. "Mix you another drink?" he asked. 

"I don't think so," Aziraphale said, and still holding onto Crowley's hands, walked backwards to tug him toward the kitchen. "It would be only right for me to return the favor. I've a notion that you might look very attractive bent over the countertop in that skirt of yours. Perhaps with a glass of port for you to sip."

"Why, angel," Crowley purred, "you're so good to me."

The thunderstorm continued unabated, which was lucky, because it kept everyone indoors. Otherwise, someone might have thought to take a stroll through the grounds and, upon peeking into a charming cottage's kitchen window, would have seen the most bizarre sight: the archetypal British nanny, supposedly stiff of upper lip and straight of spine, sprawled face-first over a countertop with an obscene moan pouring from the mouth, a glass of port sitting untouched by the sink.

They wouldn't be able to catch a glimpse of Aziraphale, though. 

His face was quite out of sight, buried somewhere we will not mention, up a very smart, practical skirt. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Hold on, you might be saying. Did not the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, possess some experience with gardens? After all, his very first post had been in the very first one. This is wrongheaded thinking, I'm afraid. Aziraphale had as much to do with the care and pruning of Eden's greenery as a mall security guard has in selling the frilly underthings contained in a shop under their purview, which is to say, absolutely none.  [return to text]
> 
> 2 We say "his" because our bastard language is beset with constraints. Unlike Crowley's gender, which was not.  [return to text]
> 
> 3 Aziraphale had no particular fondness for cats, but Stephen had come with the cottage and Aziraphale hated to put the animal out of a job, even if that job consisted mainly of sleeping on the windowsill, eating millipedes, and producing globs of phlegm directly on the area rug every few days. When asked, Crowley denied that his Side had anything whatsoever to do with the invention of the domestic feline. This was not a lie. Cats, it should be noted, are their own coalition of evil independent of Satan.  [return to text]
> 
> 4 As with most things in the mortal world, Crowley and Aziraphale didn't _need_ them but could choose to make use of such things if the mood struck. For Crowley, the last time that had happened was 1823. He'd had a long nap beforehand and felt a piss would be just the thing. Sorry if that's too blue for you.  [return to text]
> 
> 5 He could have just miracled into his clothes, of course, but a sensualist like Aziraphale will do up his buttons by hand every time just to feel the horn between his fingers. (Too blue again?)  [return to text]
> 
> 6 They—and this cannot be overstated—were not. But if one wanted to be charitable, it could be admitted they were certainly doing their best. That's all you can ask for when it comes to child-rearing.  [return to text]
> 
> 7 Crowley had just finished reading young Warlock their latest bedtime story, Machievelli's _The Prince_. When the boy returned, they were planning to start in on _Atlas Shrugged_.  [return to text]
> 
> 8 He also displayed great self-control in not mentioning that he had seen Crowley with his own two eyes sitting in a rocking chair in the conservatory one afternoon, the young boy fast asleep in his arms, slack cheek pillowed on his bosom, while Crowley hummed a wordless lullaby. No, that little tidbit was for Aziraphale alone to enjoy. Though Crowley would never admit it aloud, Aziraphale had long been cognizant of his companion's deep and abiding love for children. It only made sense, after all, that Crowley would take a shine to the humans most likely to cause (and revel in) chaos.  [return to text]
> 
> 9 No pressure.  [return to text]
> 
> 10 On a coaster, of course. Angel.  [return to text]
> 
> 11 An object which has nothing to do with gender, we should point out. Aziraphale, as an angel, had no gender (whereas Crowley had an abundance of the stuff). The cock was usually ornamental but Aziraphale kept it out of habit (see: his entire wardrobe) and because Crowley liked to have something to suck on occasionally.  [return to text]


End file.
